By:
Edited by Heyman Wreford
‘Tis but a line, a hurried scrawl,
And little seem the words to say,
Yet hold me in reproachful thrall:
“You quarreled with me yesterday;
Tomorrow you’ll be sad.”
Ay, “you’ll be sad,” the words are few,
And yet they pierce my soul with pain;
Ay, “you’ll be sad,” the words are true:
They haunt me with prophetic strain:
“Tomorrow you’ll be sad.”
We quarreled, and for what? a word,
A foolish speech that jarred the ear,
And thus in wrath our pulses stirred;
Then came her letter: “Dear, my dear,
Tomorrow you’ll be sad.”
Few words! half mirth, and half regret,
The last her hand should ever write —
Sad words! learned long ago, and yet
Fresh with new pain to ear and sight:
“Tomorrow you’ll be sad!”